Chapter 9
VICTORIA
It’s official. The Professor is ding-ding in the head for voluntarily continuing to come back to this shithole.
Beige walls stained by greasy fingerprints, neon lights that buzz like there are mosquitoes trapped inside the bulbs, and a smell that reminds me of burnt milk. But if he’s here, I’m here.
Before our date, I spent hours trying to choose the perfect outfit.
Men are simple: show a little too much cleavage, let them stare a little longer at your boobs and boom—they are hooked and bending to your will, just a second away from doing whatever you want for the promise of a quickie.
And under normal circumstances, this is exactly what would happen.
But something tells me that Azrael is not dumb enough to fall for it.
So I had to put into practice all the knowledge on the internet and the not-so-accurate articles about “men and the psychology behind clothes.” Did I buy a body-hugging, long summer dress just because one article said to do so?
Maybe. Am I wearing my most uncomfortable red high heels because of the same reason?
Probably. I mean, I’d try anything. Whatever it takes to win.
I know he’s playing his own game, whatever that may be. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have agreed to meet me. But I also know I need to be the one winning. And for that, I need to play all the cards I have in the pack.
I arrive a few minutes before the not-so-scheduled time. Azrael made me hack him, which was difficult. Beats me, what sort of twisted pleasure he got from seeing me trying to penetrate his phone’s security system, but I finally managed to get access.
And there, right at the top of his notes app, was a message: See you at 7:00. Same café where you failed to stalk me the last time.
Bloody fucking Professor.
I see him across the room, seated at the same table, and I feel him registering my presence the moment the door closes behind me.
I would have expected him to acknowledge me in some way, but nope.
He doesn’t even look up, too absorbed by his coffee.
Instead, he sits with one arm resting lazily along the back of his booth, the other toying with a chipped ceramic cup that was probably created before I was born.
Maybe looking at me would break his timed routine.
I slide into the seat across from him, waiting for some sort of confirmation that he sees I’m there.
Hello, Professor, it’s me, your dear subject.
But no, nothing. It’s like I’m a ghost and he cannot be bothered enough to look at me.
Or maybe he is just too scared to admit he likes what he sees, outside of that black-and-white outfit I usually wear when I’m in his class.
Could it be that? Yes, I will go with that.
But before I have a chance to push it a little further for my own entertainment, the server comes to take our order.
Luckily, it’s not the same one I should have killed during that first visit.
She looks exactly like the typical cafeteria lady, with a deep voice from an excess of nicotine and eyes glazed enough to make me wonder what exactly she has been doing in the back.
“Coffee?” she asks mechanically, her voice scraping the interior of my eardrum like a malfunctioning blender.
“Wine,” I reply, almost amused. It’s 7 p.m., for God’s sake. Who on earth drinks coffee at 7 p.m.? Besides my Professor, of course, no judging him.
The look on her face says it all—this isn’t a wine place. No shit. This is a caffeine and cigarettes place.
I sigh, and instead of pulling out the knife from my thigh holster, I just give her a sharp smile. “Red. Cheap. Whatever you’ve got. Put it in a mug if you have to.”
Will she bring that to me? One can hope. I’m pretty sure whatever is making her eyes glassy is not the only thing she has there in the back.
She leaves, muttering something I don’t need to hear, nor do I want to if I want her to stay alive long enough to bring my order.
My focus is already narrowing toward Azrael.
Up close, he’s so…stoic. Stone-cold to the point you’d wonder if he was alive, if not for his finger moving on the mug.
I lean my body forward over the table to get closer, trying to grab his attention, but if he notices the movement, he doesn’t care enough to react.
The cameras in his office cannot capture the shallow hitch in his breathing when he moves his head. It can’t record the little scar on his eyebrow or the way his jaw tenses involuntarily when someone is looking at him. But here, I can see everything.
Only once the server disappears behind the counter does he speak, his voice reflecting the boredom he probably feels.
“So,” he says, a little annoyed. “You were stupid enough to—”
His voice, the subtle movement of his lips—it sends shivers down my spine and lands right between my thighs.
“Victoria,” I interrupt, incapable of paying attention to what he was saying. “I want to hear you say it.”
When he finally looks me in my eyes, the intensity of his stare makes me sit back, just slightly.
He holds my gaze, looking like he’s waiting for me to reflect on the insanity of my request. No, dear Professor, I’ve waited way too long for this.
It takes a few seconds, but he finally sighs, rolling his eyes in disbelief.
“Victoria.”
The sound of it makes my chest tighten, like hearing your own name after years of solitude. He says it like it means nothing, but my entire existence just shifted with that word alone. This man…I’d let him ruin me just to change that tone.
“I’ve been waiting for this. Not through a text, but my name rolling off your tongue.”
Whatever he thought this would be, it is not going according to plan, based on the twitching of his lips. He’s here for a meeting, while I’m here for soft porn.
“What exactly do you want?” he asks, his voice a groan of exhaustion.
“To be your subject,” I reply bluntly. “To let you play with my mind a little. See what you can do.”
I could lie, find a better way to phrase it, but all my neurons seem to take a vacation as soon as I’m in his proximity.
He tilts his head in disbelief. “You want me to…what? Mentally torture you?”
Is this what I want? To be tortured by him? I mean, this wouldn’t be the first time someone tried and succeeded in doing that.
I move my eyes, looking outside the dirty window in the distance. “Sure, you can try. As long as I feel something.”
Now he actually looks confused. “So you want to feel something?”
“I want to feel alive. I’ve seen your work. I’ve read your papers. I want you to put all those theories into practice.”
“You are severely deranged. I’m not doing this.”
This must be too much for him to comprehend because he scoffs and tries to stand, but I grab him by the arm before he can walk away from the table.
Fuck, this is how a man’s arm should feel. I wonder how much strength he could exert. Enough to break a neck, maybe? Surely enough for choki— Victoria, no! Right, right. Meeting mode.
“Look, I don’t care how you do it,” I say while shaking my head, partly because I want him to understand I’m not joking and partly because I’m trying to shake away these thoughts that are no good for my underwear. “I need to feel something.”
He studies me in silence for a moment before answering. “I thought you’d have more sense.”
Well, so did I. But if he hasn’t noticed, I’ve been holding the handle of my knife through my dress ever since the server left, and my brain has already put a target on the two fuckers at the end of the counter who’ve touched the young hostess one too many times.
I’m quite desperate, and he is the only one available to help.
“Azrael, I know what this sounds like. If you are hoping for someone fully sane and easy, this,”—I point between the two of us—“would be very, very hard on you. But I have my reasons for being here, and you’re going to help me, even if I have to make you do it.”
Something flickers in his expression as he takes his seat again.
“I’ve thought about this,” I continue, grabbing the momentum. “More times than I should admit. What you will do to me, the actions and consequences, how bad this is going to hurt, and how I’ll probably hate you for doing it.”
He doesn’t flinch. “And?”
“And I’m still here. I’m not going to beg you, but this will be way easier if you cooperate.”
He leans forward, and I can feel my pulse quickening.
“This will end badly for you,” he says.
This is the first genuine smile I’ve produced in years. “I fucking hope so.”
The seconds are passing, and I’m getting impatient. Sure, he could decline, but nobody like him would pass on such an intriguing subject. But what if the Profe—
“What’s in it for me?” he asks, and I know he has already made up his mind.
“Only you know that. I’m taking what I want from you, and you can do the same. We’re going to use each other, do our own thing. It just so happens we are going to do it together.”
He nods once, then he places a folded piece of paper between us that I hadn’t seen him holding, and starts to write down what I can only assume are notes of what I just said. Minutes later, he pushes the paper toward me.
It looks like we’re signing some sort of destruction contract.
Rules
There will be no safe word. We only stop if you leave. That’s the only way out. Once you’re gone, you don’t come back.
I film. You watch. Always.
I will hurt you on purpose, in more ways than you could imagine, and you will thank me for it.
Bleeding, begging, crying, or screaming are not reasons to stop.
You will obey every command I give.
Kill me, please. Why does everyone want to have rules and contracts? But this is not the moment to make fun of his “paperwork.” Look at that, I got myself another Alex, just less annoying.
I trace the edge of the paper with my finger, considering the possibility of this being just as stupid as it looks.
“Why cameras?” I ask the most obvious question.
“Because memory is unreliable, and the brain tends to lie about how bad the pain was after you start healing. This is just to make sure it refreshes the memory of it. You need to control the variables if you want to control the outcome.”
Too poetic for my taste, but it makes sense.
“What happens if I beg you to stop because I’m in too much pain?”
I would never, since I want this, but I need to make sure he is just as psychopathic as he pretends. This will only work if he has no limits.
“I will not,” he answers matter-of-factly.
When I look up, the hunger in his eyes is fully on display. Does he get hard at the idea of destroying people, or is that just a sadistic lust? I guess I’m about to find out.
“It almost looks like a contract.”
He looks at me like he’s bored with pretending to be human. “It is.”
I reread the line that would scare any sane person. Bleeding, begging, crying, or screaming are not reasons to stop.
“Do you know what kind of person agrees to this?”
Should I be pleased he thinks so highly of me, that I would still go through with our game even after reading this? Or does he not even care? How many times has he done this in the past? Actually, no. I don’t want to know how many cunts have had access to my Professor.
“I do.”
God, can he give me anything besides a two-word answer?
“I want to add something,” I say, surprised by my own words.
“Of course.”
“If genuine feelings slip through,” I answer while keeping my voice steady, “you exploit them. I need this to be as visceral and effective as possible.”
His mouth twitches. “You will feel a lot of things, just not what you expect.”
My nails scratch lightly against the surface as I slide the paper back toward him.
“Add this too, then. If I ask you to stop, you’ll say no—even if it kills me.”
Nodding again.
No argument. He just writes my note down like he’s adding a clause to a suicide note. And just like that, I’m signing what could easily be my final will.
Why the hell am I even signing this piece of paper? Because you don’t want to upset the Professor. Right.
We sit in silence for what feels like ages. Meanwhile, I’m trying to find the reason behind his rules. Every clause is about my actions—my crying, my begging, my leaving. What on earth is his game?
“This isn’t about doing or not doing for you,” I finally realize. “You just want to see how far I’m willing to go.”
He doesn’t deny it, nor does he say another word. I must have been on the right track, but it’s too soon to try to understand his reasoning.
After a few more minutes, I finally break the silence. “So do you agree?”
“I already did the moment I sent you the message.”
He tears the list in two and hands me my half.
“Keep it if you want,” he says.
“I’m going to frame it.” My answer couldn’t sound more sarcastic.
“You have no idea what you got yourself into, Victoria. You will regret it.”
And with that, he stands without waiting for an answer and leaves, the door shutting behind him.
I stare into the distance, still seated, still high from the conversation.
“How exciting.”